Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc. belongs to JKR.
AN: Mwauha. Witness my active procrastination. (Maths homework? What maths homework?) Drabble! Drabbledrabbledrabble.
You met her so many years ago; you were just a child and she was little more. She gave you an apple and a smile and from that day on you thought of her as Eve (you never thought to ask her true name).
The Mabon sun sets beyond the lake and she sits alone. You would speak to her, go and ask her what is wrong but she wishes to be by herself (and who are you to deprive her of what she wants?). You saw her crying that day, running from her home and out into the streets of your small village, they say her father hurts her and if you were strong enough you would go and hurt him back. As you kneel at your window and watch her tears you promise yourself when you're big enough you'll make everything better for her (you've promised to save her world).
Skipping and dancing, Samhain fires burning in the fields. She wore a beautiful dress and sung like a bird in springtime, rising and falling to the beat of the chant, soft fabric swirling as she turned. Young and bright she is fire, flaming and burning and drawing you in. You watch her and long for something greater, something beyond what you understand. You watch her and for the first time think you know magic.
The Black Moon rose on Yule that year. You remember the omens, shadowed by the Church's accusations of profanity. You remember her tears as the darkness of the solstice settled in. You remember how black it was that night, how cold you felt as the fire was lit. You remember watching her cry as they burnt her mother at the stake, how she whispered "they took her wand," over and over again when the screams of protest ran dry. Shadows haunted you then, shadows of clergymen dancing about the pyre, animalistic in their need for cleansing, shadows of burning witches, shadows of a beautiful girl's shattered smile.
Candlemas under the full moon of February. A year has passed and she stands, a sister of the church in a gown of white. A crucifix hangs around her neck as the claims to have seen the 'Light' but as you stand at the back, candle unlit and voice muted, you wonder if you alone can see the dark fire within. She hates more than anyone you've seen before, hates with a bitterness that would scald a soul, a passion that terrifies you even as you follow her. (She doesn't know you but you would follow her over the very rim of the Earth.)
Your seventeenth year and you have a job now, working in the fields with your cousin and your uncle. They say you're a good strong lad, they say you should get yourself a wife. You laugh and change the subject. The land is ripe with the fruits of Gaia but you go to Mass and say your prayers to God because that is what the law demands (and your mother always said you should act as the law would wish). With a bowed head you see her leave the church, rosary beads and quiet prayers, she doesn't smile anymore.
Your mother is dead now but you sit by your uncle inside the tavern and remember what she would say. You remember her and think back to the girl you used to watch play around the bonfires when the Samhain night was bright, you remember her and her mother sitting with all the coven, pentacle drawn from the very beauty and balance of Nature herself, you remember their laughter and dancing and you remember how things were before.
You find her one night, warm and balmy as it nears Ostara, or 'Easter' as the priest would have you say. You find her by the stream, dressed in black for the mourning period of Lent, fingers shaking as she douses herself in the water. "Pater noster," she whispers, and though you know it's bad to spy, you watch all the same. "Qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum." Tears mingle with the water and you wonder what it is she prays for. "Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra." The Lord's Prayer. You recognise it and wonder what it is she tries so desperately to clean from her hands. "Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris." Movements frantic and clumsy she splashes her face and arms and scrubs her hands again. "Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo." Stuttering and sobbing she repeats, "sed libera nos a malo."
Clouds shift and in the moonlight you watch the red-stained water trickle past. Eyes wide you stare at her huddled form.
"Amen."
Beltane of another year. She is the talk of the town. She's been seeing a man despite the oath of celibacy she swore before God himself. You would have thought you would have died with jealousy, but he is a good man. An unusual man. One of the few men left after the Church's recruitment for their 'Crusade's' and you think you like him.
"What's your name?" You asked him, after you watched him send a flock of monks back to their cloisters with a flick of his wrist.
"I'm looking for a young nun by the name of Helga. Her mother was killed a number of years ago…"
Brows furrowed you questioned him but only received warped inquiries in response. He comes and goes from time to time, living out of the old Halfway House in the next town. You drink with him and he tells you of a land in the far North, home of the Celts and savages. Past Hadrian's Wall he says and you wish you'd listened more to your grandfather's instructions in geography. Through the mountains, he says, and west of the North Sea. A flagon of ale in one hand, gold tipped feather in the other he drew you a picture and you marvelled at his skill with the pen.
"Hogsmeade Castle," he would whisper, pointing at the parchment he wrote on. "I'll take her there. I'll take her there and we can create another world. A better world."
Sometimes you thought he was mad. Sometimes you thought he was genius. Sometimes you forgot to think at all and would simply listen as he explained a great school of magic, like the kind practiced by your mother and her coven only stronger. Better. He'd speak of an Order of Magic, of Merlin and his followers. He spoke of Helga and her powers, how without instruction she would self-destruct. He spoke of his father, Head of the Gryffindor family and estate, of his partner in this great plan, Salazar Slytherin. He spoke and you listened.
Midsummer day was when you went to see her, handing her a folded note from the bright stranger with the gold tipped quill. This Litha you did not stand alone and together the three of you said your thanks to the Goddess from the east hill of the farm.
"He's taking me away," she whispered next time you saw her. The white cloth of the church was discarded and she wore yellow, bright as the first Samhain you saw her. "We're going to Scotland to start a great school. He can teach me to control my magic!" Genuine happiness faltered, "I know you saw me… By the stream… I – it wasn't a person, I want you to know. The blood. It was a dove. I'd just fought with Our Mother Superior and it scared me… I jumped and even though it was flying out of my reach it's neck broke." Her eyes were wide and pleading and you could do nothing if not forgive her. "I thought I'd been possessed… But Godric, he showed me I was not. I can turn water into wine, silver into gold! It sounds like blasphemy… But I promise you, this is what is right." She smiled to you and you found yourself smiling back. "This is how I'm meant to be. What my mother would have wanted." Her hands found yours and with eyes shining she whispered, "I'm going home."
Lughnasadh came and went and with it they left, off north on two steeds of white. They told you they'd send news by owl and you've been by your window every evening since.
Your wife cooks downstairs for you and your children and this Samhain is dark (the Church douses all bonfires and ties the pentacle to the gates of Hell). Even as the blood moon rises you trust and wait, because they showed you there was hope in a world when magic seemed to wane.
A rattle beyond your wooden shutters, a soft squawk. You jump to you feet and open the window to the cold night. A tawny owl swoops in bearing a green-penned envelope. Five and twenty years on and you receive your letter. Fingers trembling you sit down on your bed, letter falling to the floor.
Your son will attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the first pupil of Helga Hufflepuff.
Master Delbert Diggory. The envelope proclaims.
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